Always and a Day
by SummerRed
Summary: John had Sherlock and Sherlock had John. And now both had no one. Post Reichenbach Fall one-shot.


Don't own Sherlock, its quotes, or its characters.

* * *

><p><strong>Always and a Day<strong>

John loved Sherlock.

Had for a while now, actually, whether it was platonic or slightly more romantic he didn't know, and it hardly mattered which way to him anyway.

Sherlock was his friend, his real, true, best friend; sometimes he loved being in the flat with him, when it was silent, with a cup of tea nearby, writing his beloved blog whilst Sherlock worked on a simple case opposite him.

Other times he came close to strangling Sherlock, driven to distraction by an experiment gone wrong, the sound of bullets embedding themselves in the wall, a body part in a new, startling place-the eyes in the toilet had given him quite a turn; Sherlock had apparently filled the water with some chemical but the sink just wasn't good enough, _oh no, _it needed to be in a contained area (but apparently a jar hadn't been good enough for the world' only consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, of course not), meaning that when John had lifted the seat he'd nearly wet himself there and then from the shock of seeing three disembodied eyes staring up at him, followed by nearly knocking himself unconscious on the toilet rim as he fell to his knees to throw up due to the horrific smell emanating from the toilet-but that was neither here nor there now.

Sherlock was gone. Dead. Fallen.

But inside John, deep down inside him, perhaps even in his soul if there were such things, buried where no one could see or pity it, was hope. One shining little piece of hope, kept alive by his love for Sherlock, and his unwavering belief in him.

Because Sherlock had to be alive. He was far too clever to be backed into a corner by Moriarty; or indeed to be driven off a ledge.

"_There's stuff that you wanted to say…but didn't say it."_

"_Yeah."_

"_Say it now."_

"_No…sorry, I can't…"_

He could almost imagine Sherlock's face if he ever had said it. Three little words that can be meant in so many different ways, can have a huge impact, cause an even bigger fallout, that both destroy and make people.

Yeah, he could just imagine his face.

But he still should have said it.

He thought he was going to, when he was stood at the…at Sherlock's-

Grave. Sherlock's grave.

He would have to get used to those two words being together from now on.

Until Sherlock returned of course. And he would. He had to.

All the other words he had said had been true, painfully true, spoken from the very core of his being-from the heart if he wanted to be poetic about it.

But those three words. They had been the hardest to say. And so he hadn't.

But one day…one day he would say them.

Because one day Sherlock would be back.

And John couldn't wait for that day.

* * *

><p>Hearing John defending him, feeling him be slammed against the police car beside him for 'chinning' the Chief Superintendent because he insulted him; his expression had been unfathomable, as had his emotions, torn between pride and affection and gratitude and-<p>

It had been those feelings, coupled with John's vehement disbelief in Moriaty's lies, which had made it so hard for Sherlock to leave his 'note' to John.

The hardest thing he had ever had to do.

He wanted to tell himself that it was the words that had made his voice tremble. But it wasn't. It was saying those words to John.

It was John who made the tears fall.

It was John who broke his heart in the cemetery, standing at his graveside, his words reaching Sherlock through an open communication Molly had planted for him earlier.

_Turn around._

It was John and his returned limp that made him want to run to him, to scream that he was still alive.

_I'm here, John. _

It was John who had taken a machine with no heart and helped create a human who cared all too much, aided by Molly, Mrs Hudson, even Lestrade. But it was John who had made him feel.

_Don't just see, John, observe._

It was John who taught him what friendship was, what it really meant.

_Please observe for once, for me._

It was John who had become another part of him, one that was now oh so crucial.

_Please do it for me._

It was John who he would have to leave.

_Turn around, John_

It was John who he loved, in whatever way that may be.

_I'm right here._

It was John.

_I'm here._

It was always John.


End file.
